I don’t know if the way I speak is the way I actually speak or if I choose to sound this way.

That scares me.

I try to talk in the language of my ancestors but my tongue trips over itself trying to taste the words.

I don’t know if the image I project is who I really want to be or if it’s society’s version of a better me you see.

That scares me.

I paint my face with white lies and keep my hair long for you, you like it long don’t you baby?

Speak loud, speak clear, or they won’t hear.

Enunciate and smile.

Good girl.

I don’t know if I want the white picket fence in my future or if I place my value in people and experiences.

That scares me.

I fumble through life, falling from friend to forgotten, chasing the sun with you by my side, please stay.

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, or if I’m capable of being anything at all.

That scares me.

I search for the elusive self that knows who it is they are, like a shadow I see her but she’s always out of reach.

Get married, buy house, have babies.

Earn money, not too much though.

Good girl.

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